Alot of what we do here at blogspot.com involves what is called con-text-ual thinking. That is selecting mundane and simple aspects of your everyday life and making them into something more than they are. If I know half of you half as well as I would like, and less than half of you, half as well as you should like me to know, it is probably something contextualized around vampires or some elven conspiracy concerning rapid deforestation and orc genocide.Dont tell me you all havent wondered about those pointy eared people out there or shot at them with a bow and arrow to test their magical reflexes, and missed and hit the neighbour's dog, and then tried frantically to cover it up by dumping the bloody body in the ocean, only to have it come back to life in a horrific way, with a fish hook, a yellow raincoat, and pick each of you off when you are alone or trying desperately to have dirty sexual relations, trying slowly to get into your rusted 90's red Ford Taurus in a hurry in the face of Lassie trying to save you from Timmy's revenge.
Awareness of facts and situations and logical thinking go hand in hand. If details are missing, simplistic people simply fill in the gaps with whatever comes to their cocaine infested brains. Blaming then becomes a matter of the other person's problems, not your own. "Blah I didnt get this, so it must be your fault," muttering conspiracy nonsense and not a reaction to stupidity. And living like that only leads to a future of cardboard homes and movie theater employment.
If a tree falls in a forest and there's no one there to hear it, did that tree fall?
Contextual thinkers would believe that it did fall, only for a reason they will soon make up. Because it probably fell on your home -you unpopular unoteworthy- you probably ignored the fact that people were pushed to the point of arson and home invasion and felled that tree onto the explosive powerline.. Your tree based suspicions and contextual thinking force you analyze the situation in a tarded way.
To tarded thinkers, the reason the tree fell in the first place was because Treebeard, the great tree lord, gathered up all the trees and decided to vote the fallen tree out of the woods, simply because that fallen tree, they think, voted for the lead writer of this website in his failed bid for conquest of the American Idol phenomenon.Others, in a conspiratorial manner, say the TV singer was an imposter and didnt in fact resemble the lead writer of this site, because of his way cooler swagger, voice and musical ability matching the archangel Gabriel in all his Idol talents, and general genuisness revolving around his popular demeanor. I am more inclined toward the latter.
Short introductions aside, I figured it was time to approach literature with the same emphasis on contextual thinking. I suggest you read the previous posts on this subject, and then this most flavorable addition, as you would the bible, for God hath smote man for less.
Based on a real sources, provided in two small books---- samples really---- to convert Marquee workers to the Christian woman's sensual life, Bulky Woods is a translation of these works for internet consumption. Fiery religious dogooders actually read this!Romance and love on a scale that even the aliens of Zarkon could not match:
Idea: A select committee of box office workers edited these two small Christian romance novel samples, placed at a movie theater to gain converts, and for the first time their content is provided to you here--- tards---- in one comprehensive and salvation giving storyline. Mind you, we wrote none of the language in this other than those words that are regular size and italicized to give the works a better meaning. We also switched names to maximize the effect.
"Crispy Blessing: What's Cooking in your oven?
"Am I good? Or am I Good? Good enough to be the director of market research, a little voice in her head chirped smugly. Better than hunky Chris B Oven. Way better.... She rubbed her hands together and blew on her fingertips. Then she stabbed her red pencil through the tight knot of platinum-blond hair at her nape.
She gripped the wheel with both hands. Help me, Lord. I'm walking a tightrope, and if I fall, an innocent child could pay the price.Chel's heart broke. Why was she letting the unease from the past trouble her? There was no reason to look back. She'd come a long way, and she'd done it all by herself--okay, with the help of God and her sisters. Chris B. Oven was waiting for her, and no way was she going to let him down.
Chris B. Oven walked up pondering life and God.
He had started to look for someone who'd make a good mother, someone who wanted a marriage based on companionship and building a family together. Maybe it was from his fatigue or the fact that adrenaline had kicked in and was tremulous in his veins. He still had the will to live, after all.
No, there was no rest and no sanctuary from the past. Not tonight.
"And what about your prayers?" Chel enquired
"Kelly made me" Chris replied "Okay tiger, it's way past your bedtime. Get to your room and under your covers. I'll be back in half a second."
"Yep. I told ya. Im really, really ready?"
"Then get into bed, young man, Hurry up." Chel demanded
He ran, feet pounding as he raced out of her sight. The squeek of the box spring told her he'd jumped onto his mattress and was bouncing around, all boy energy, even this late at night.
If only she could harness it, she thought wistfully, as she bent her aching back to blow out the other candle on the little dinette set in the eating nook. Every bone in both feet seemed to groan and wince as she headed down the hall, drawn through the darkness by the light in her little boy's room.
She pondered where she was going in her life. This was her sanctuary, and Chris B.'s boyhood home. She breathed in the serenity and felt more centered.
No. the denial was instant and automatic. She didnt have to risk anything. As long as Thomas James didnt know who she was, she had nothing to fear.
She got a faint wiff of soap, saw the sprinkling of freckles on his skin, felt the sheer masculine magnetism of the man.
"At first it drove me crazy, but now I love it" he bursted to no one.
Ryan's ribbing had taken over Chris's thoughts.He grabbed her and kissed her cheek. "Go on, now. Which of us would you like to get rid of?"
It was those two men tonight. The harsh, brash way they'd laughed over their meal. It all burned in her stomach, the anger and the helplessness of it. They probably thought nothing of it, just two guys out having some fun.
"She's no battle axe, that's for sure." Ryan dropped into the chair opposite him.
Chris B. Oven stuck his finger in his mouth, afflicted with sudden shyness, then apparently decided she was okay and lunged toward her.
He frowned at something, her throat tightened.
Chris B. might be the quieter of the Flanagans, but he packed a powerful masculine punch, all the same.
She backed up until she bumped into the mantel. This was better. She could stay out of the mainstream and observe. If only she could put a camera in front of her face, she'd be fine.
"The camera bothers you, doesnt it."
"Horseplay," he grinned.
"If a call comes in, dont get between that door and the pole."
"So the shiny brass pole really exists, does it?....I thought it might be a myth"
She focused her lens on the opening. "You wouldnt care to give me a demonstration would you"
He patted the shiny brass.
"I cant," She pulled back, feeling his arms strong around her. "Youd have to have three or four people down there to break my fall before I'd try."He grinned. "The idea is to slide, not fall"
"Even so-"
An inappropriate wave of warmth flooded her. Chris's eyes seemed to darken, as if he felt it, too.
"Very impressive"
"Thank you. We try to keep up the image."His helmet had protected him from serious injury, but he'd seen stars for a week afterward.
"Im not going to set off any sirens by touching the wrong thing am I?"
He didnt forget she was there. But he did, oddly enough, begin to forget after a while that she was taking photographs. He polished the chrome, the familiar routine soothing."
"Then maybe youd better put on a saftey helmet. And some goggles. And some earplugs. Because youll be around plenty of them this afternoon." She reminded...
And since she seemed to get a little thrill just from hearing the increasing frustration in his low, sexy voice, she doubted the phone was going anywhere.
He was more addictive than chocolate, and in her life that was saying something.
Whatever kind of man he looked like, he had standards. He had pride. He had no use for handouts. He wasnt looking for a soup kitchen and a quick revival meeting to patch up the holes in his soul. He knew enough about shields and axes and goggles to recognize one when he saw it. He had too many of his own.After a brief appreciative swish of her legs with the tip of his tail, Chris B. headed straight to his bowl in the kitchen.
Finished, Chel's mind turned to another planet.
She couldnt seem to drag herself away from the window. it had barely been a week since she'd last seen Thomas Jay, and she was drinking in the sight as if it had been months.
The man was seriously gorgeous. He moved like a sexy, predatory cat, radiating confidence and danger....Maybe it was because the faded jeans fit in a way that kept all eyes on his trim butt and excellent thighs. No one- no sane woman, at least-- ever gave two figs what he was wearing.....it had required all of her willpower not to attack him in the back of the limo he'd rented for the evening.
Her hormones were all but pleading with her to cave now and damn the consequences.
Again Chel thought:Beau #1 had shot off the tip of his big toes, and Beau #2 had been knocked out cold from the kickback of his gun. Meanwhile, as that pair of love-struck fools had wrestled each other through the night, sweet Ashley had eloped with her one true love, Johnny Cola, and lived happily and boringly ever after.The year before, some boy had spiked the punch at the Fling with something so powerful the entire town had ended up skinny-dipping in Lake Mondo- even the big-haired and blue-haired old biddies, much to the joy of a tabloid reporter whod shown up. The reporter had taken pictures of the old biddies boogs hanging to their navels and had made Red Rock the laughinstock of Marcy.
Her opus, orchestrated in her thoughts concluded with a note of awe in the methods and the surprise of the culprit.
Her orgy of fantastical pleasure turned toward the reality of Chris B. Oven's enraged crime.
When questioned by the "coppers,' as Chris B. Oven called them, he responded with a grimace.
Water sluiced down his face as he stood, shivering from the cold and a pain so deep it had broken him. Being alive was no victory. Lost and alone, he was aware of what he must look like to her. His clothes were soaked through. His hair clung to his scalp and forehead. Rain dripped off the tip of his nose and the cleft in his chin. Except both women were watching him with horror-filled eyes. He must look like a nut.Talking to who he thought were the cops "Fairly common hazard in prison." for he correctly foresaw the cops race to the scene.
He also continued climacticly out of place to the shocked church goers that "I often wondered how women would feel if they knew they were ordering their lacy bras and thongs from convicted rapists."
MORE LOVE NEXT TIME:
BULKY WOODS, OUT...
